Breakdown
by Riia.Sumisu
Summary: Kakashi has a breakdown. "Who am I? This time, a single stupid comment from Genma, was enough to send me to hell." Implied Kakairu, but if you want, it can be friendship. Oneshot.


**Disclaimer: I do not own naruto. I do own an e-book (I had to say it)**

**AN: this is my first fic, so please be gentle. No flames, but constructive critics welcome :D **

**No, this has not happened to myself and WARNING! Somewhere in the middle it gets sappy.**

Breakdown

Hatake Kakashi. A man, even I don't know; who am I? I know how many ask themselves that question. But I wonder how many finds the answer. I know a few facts; Hatake Kakashi is a cold heartless, selfish person who hides himself behind a mask and to make it even worse, porn.

I am a failure. I can't save anybody, not even myself. This time, a single stupid comment from Genma was enough to send me to hell.

The mission room suddenly seems blurry and wrong, and I know why. People around me start asking questions, starts being worried. I smile at them, perhaps false. I notice a hand reaching out to touch me. Iruka asks '_Are you alright?_'

No I'm not. I'm breaking.

I remember the feeling, the way it's spreading across my eyes, slowly making the world go black.

The way the room shrinks in.

Then the laugher begins; making every single part of me hurt.

I wish for them to stop, and too late recognize my mistake. The silence afterwards is even worse. Making me feel sick and wishing I'd be stronger. But I'm not.

I don't remember when it first happened, but I know that when it did, I'd invited it in as a friend. I was young, too young to realize I'd made the biggest mistake of my life, and too young to care if I had known.

When it comes, it slows down everything; every emotion and every minute. Time becomes an unbearable factor. It moves slowly through my body, knowing the route, walked so many times before.

It starts in my chest. The sore, aching feeling when you hitch for your breath, with a dry throat. The unpleasant feeling when you cough up moisture.

You always know when it comes. You always know when you let go, give in to persuasion, the temptation.

But you'll never be fully ready.

I'll excuse myself, knowing that I'll want to be alone when it happens.

Not quite sure what I'd said, and not caring, I'll find a place. A little dark corner in a building, where no one will find me or no one will care.

And then I'll start counting, counting minutes, counting people passing by with pity in their eyes.

Sometime I can even gather enough strength to smile reassuringly to them. But that rarely happens.

The pain evolves in my veins making me sick to the bone. I keep telling myself in self-pity that this time it'll be short. The pain will stop early. This time it'll surprise me, notice my begging's of mercy.

I lie. And I know it. This time it will be worse. I have waited too long, I have ignored the feeling, making it stronger, making it furious. This time too, it will show no mercy, and I understand.

I could have stopped it. I could have told myself to give in. But even though it might sound easy, I cannot do it. I am too weak; too weak to break down on purpose.

Sometimes I wish for someone to notice my pain, someone to shake my terror out of me, someone to get a grip on my life and tell me to fight. But I know that it is impossible.

I won't do that to anybody, including myself.

I don't want to drag people into my hell. I do not want to share pain. I do not wish for others to hurt, the way I do.

But most of all, I do not want people to judge me.

I do not want them to ask questions; 'why didn't you tell? Why didn't you do anything? Do we others mean nothing? We can help'

The pain worsens, covering me like a blanket. It is hot and somewhat sickening comfortable, making me want to scream, making me want to dance. But I restrain myself.

I will not do that; I will not give in to insanity. I wish for it to stop. But too many wishes have been made. No one will listen anymore.

Oh, how I hope for changes.

I hope for it to end. Someday, and I know it will. Someday I will give in. On a day of courage I'll take the final step.

But for now I'll break.

My knuckles are white, and I didn't realize I was squeezing my fingers into my palms.

I have also bitten down on my lower lip, properly to prevent screams from escaping. I taste the metallic aroma of blood, and wonders if it is my own?

My knees shake when I get up, and my arms hang limp, as I walk through the city, trying to get past people.

I do not have eye contact, knowing that people will see the tears unshed, and know that something is wrong. Most of all I avoid questions.

I keep my head at the road as I make my way towards heat, towards love, towards _home_.

My feet's stops working, when I realize, that there are no such things for me. I am a machine. I am unwished for; there is no need for me.

My shoulders slump, unsystematic hair covering my eyes, as I feel tears leaking. This is not to be. Crying won't help; I told myself that long time ago.

As were it an order, the tears stopped. I am a shell.

When I finally entered what is called my apartment, I am ready:

Ready for my breakdown.

_Hopefully tomorrow will look better; hopefully tomorrow I will be able to smile and explain my strange behavior today. Hopefully people won't ask. Hopefully they'll understand._

_Hopefully they wouldn't know how f*cked up I really am__._

_Hopefully they'll somewhat rescue me, somehow __**know**__ anyway._

_Somehow be able to chase away the demons, the nightmares and the pain._

_Hopefully they wouldn't get too involved. Hopefully no one would suffer because of me._

_And somewhat, I hope, that they will do it anyway, and succeed. _

I undress quickly. Expose myself to the world.

Off goes my mask; my façade.

Off goes all of my weapons; my shield.

Off goes my clothe; my lies.

I'm ready to face defeat.

I head for the bathroom, but not without something to dull the pain. 2 bottles of some alcohol should be enough – for now. I have a tub, in my bathroom, made especially for these fine occasions, normally I just shower. I fill it to the rear, almost letting water on the floor, which there will be, when I enter it. Cleaning up is tomorrow. The water is too cold, but better than too hot. Anyways, the alcohol will warm me. Enough.

Finally my mismatched eyes closes and I feel the numbness going through my body.

My lonely silence is violated as I hear a knock on my door. I won't answer, knowing that whoever is on the outside, that somebody soon will give up and go.

It starts itching all over my body, and I find myself restless. I pull my hair, toss and turn, and bite down in whatever my teeth finds; hands, lips, arms. Slowly the water will become dirty and hours later, in the night I will finally get up. My body will respond only to commands, so when I fall down I must keep telling myself that I can do it, go through with it.

I bleed form different places, but I have not cut myself.

I have seen too many terrible scars in my life, and I will not do it. I have too much honor in me, and this is not some silly teenage angst flip. This is real life.

Or so I say.

Sometimes I want to be in my own story, a normal story – though in my story, the main character would properly die. I'm not in for happy endings. Unfortunately since it would be a nice change.

Somewhat, in the middle of the night I'll go throw up, cleaning myself, forgetting things. It's my little ritual.

And then, I'll go to bed, shaking with coldness and pain and endless suffering. And I'll think of what went wrong, what I could have done differently, what I will have to do.

I hate myself.

But tomorrow, it will be good again.

Finally.

When I finally get up the next morning, knowing I'm hours late for my usually tasks, I'll get cleaning. I'll finish what my rituals, clean up my mess, and clean up in my life, my failures.

I forgive myself until next time.

I'll dress, once again covering myself, and begin the next countdown.

Maybe I can hold out for one more month this time, maybe next time won't hurt so much.

That time, that sorrow.

When I emerge from my apartment, I see somebody sitting on the stairs.

"Iruka-sensei?" I ask, my voice is husky, and even I have trouble recognizing it. He looks like he'd been sitting there for a long time. Since… last night. My thoughts gathers and I dazzled wonder if he were the one knocking on my door?

Quickly Iruka stands, swaying a little because of the sudden action. "Ka-Kakashi-sensei!" he blushes, scratching his scar.

"I-I was just buying groceries in the store a few blocks from here, when I thought I'd go visit! And… maybe you wanted to go for a walk with me?" He was funny when he was embarrassed. '_Liar,' _I thought to him _'you have no bag with groceries, and you look like you haven't slept all night'_.

But of course I didn't tell him that, knowing I would properly scare him off. Instead I smiled and closed my eyes in greeting "Of course Iruka-sensei! I would be delighted"

I knew that one day I would be saved.

- onari -

**AN: Yea I know. Sappy ending xD! I just had to get the final line :0 else it would be .. I don't know. Unfullfilled? (is that a word?!)**

**SOMEHOW I just couldn't resist! Bwaha!**

**Well... What do you think? I love angst stories, so I like it, buuuut.**

**Please R&R! Did I do a good job on my fist fic? **


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